


fixation

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [40]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 00:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11242218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Two days later his mamma ambushes him while he’s eating breakfast. “I made you an appointment with a therapist,” she says.Robbie chokes on his eggs.





	fixation

Three days after locker clean out, Robbie goes home. He usually does, at least for a little while, maybe a couple weeks, gets his family time in before he escapes to go train with Wheels and some non-Caps in Arlington. He was considering putting it off, because the last thing he wants is his parents getting on him, but once the fridge is empty and most of the guys have left, it feels kind of pathetic to stay. Not that he was going out seeing them anyway, but. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to feel pathetic. Maybe that’s asking for too much.

He sends his mother his flight info the third time she gently nudges him about his plans, and she’s waiting at the airport when he lands, which he didn’t expect but should have.

“I could have gotten a cab,” Robbie says.

“It was no trouble,” she says. “Good to see you. You look—” she stops.

Horrible, Robbie guesses, if she’s not going to say it. He’s been sleeping ten hours a night since they got knocked out, but you can’t tell with the washed out sallow shit he’s got going on, bruises from the playoffs fading as the ones under his eyes get darker.

“Tired,” she says, finally, probably the nicest way she could have framed it.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Long season.”

It’s really hard to keep up with the conversation in the car. Hard to keep up even half of it, and he knows he usually does most of the talking, so half probably seems pretty weird. His ma keeps glancing over at him, quick ones, like if she’s fast enough he won’t notice. He starts looking out the window so he doesn’t have to see it.

“Good flight?” she asks.

“Uneventful,” Robbie says. “So I guess.”

“I’m making lasagna tonight,” she says. “You probably need all the help you can get, getting some meat back on your bones, so no bitching about me using ricotta instead of cottage cheese this time.”

“Kay,” Robbie says.

She’s probably looking at him again. Robbie stares extra hard at the scenery sweeping past him, or what little there is of it. Oh look, a hotel. Now there’s a factory.

“If you don’t want lasagna,” she says.

“Lasagna’s fine,” Robbie says. One of his favorites, which she knows. Probably why she’s making it, why she made it with substitutions to make it healthier when he got more serious about his diet, even though his papa bitched about it not tasting right.

“Are you okay?” she asks when they get home, blunter than Robbie’s used to. She says it before she unlocks the front door, so Robbie’s trapped unless he wants to like, jog around the neighborhood.

“I’m dealing with it,” Robbie says.

“If there’s anything I can do,” she says.

“Ma, I’m dealing with it,” Robbie says, sharper than he means to, and when she looks hurt he feels awful. No one deserves his shit less. 

“Okay,” she says, then unlocks the door.

“Ma?” Robbie says, when she’s about to disappear into the kitchen. “You making garlic bread?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Can you put some cheese on it?” Robbie asks. “I mean. If you’re putting some meat back on my bones.”

She smiles a little. “Your father will be happy about that.”

“Yeah, yeah, he clogs his arteries up it’s not my fault,” Robbie says, and goes upstairs to put his shit away, sits down on the Bruins sheets that are still there, worn thin and faded almost gray. The bed creaks under his weight, lack of meat on his bones or not.

He moves his bags to the guest room. Bed’s better for his back anyway.

*

Being at home’s kind of good and kind of sucks at the same time. His papa keeps wanting to rehash the playoffs, which is the last fucking thing in the world he wants, his mamma keeps giving him those worried eyes, which might actually be worse, but he’s getting fed and his ma gets him out of bed if he sleeps more than nine hours, and he isn’t surrounded by fucking ghosts.

After a couple weeks papa leaves town for business for a week, and Robbie’s a little surprised how chill it gets, him and his mamma sitting on the back porch at the end of the day, him with a beer, her with a glass of wine. No questions — the first few times she asked him what he did that day he maybe snapped at her a little, so she stopped soon after he got home, just tells him about her own day, and it’s — it grates a little, the way everything grates right now, but not as much as it would with anyone else, even Matty. It’s his ma.

“I love having you here,” mamma says, the second night, “But isn’t this around the time you go back for training?”

So much for no more questions. 

Robbie shrugs. “Maybe I want to stick around,” he says.

“Of course you’re welcome,” she says.

“Good,” Robbie says. 

“What’re you doing for training?” she asks.

Robbie shrugs jerkily. Wheels has sent him some texts, but he — he can’t deal with that shit right now. He’ll figure it out.

“You want another beer?” she asks.

“Yeah, if you’re getting up,” Robbie says, and that’s it for questions for the night.

*

Two days later his mamma ambushes him while he’s eating breakfast. “I made you an appointment with a therapist,” she says.

Robbie chokes on his eggs. 

“It’s tomorrow afternoon,” she says. “I’m happy to drive you.”

“Does papa know you did this?” Robbie asks.

“It’s none of his business,” she says.

“But it’s yours?” Robbie asks.

“You know what he thinks about therapy,” she says. Robbie knows. Therapists are bullshit. ‘Mental illness’ is a made up thing to make money for drug companies and shrinks, maybe not the crazy ass shit, but definitely depression and shit like that. Deal with being sad like everybody else does. Shit like that. One from Robbie’s youth, which isn’t exactly in the same ballpark, but hit Robbie right where he lived: anyone who isn’t straight is confused or looking for attention. He’s walked that one back a bit. Robbie can’t imagine why. 

The total fucking bullshit of it is the reason Robbie agrees to go, pure spite even though, if his ma has her way, papa won’t know about it at all.

He starts rethinking it almost immediately. He’s rethinking it _hard_ when she’s driving him to it the next day.

“I don’t need this,” Robbie says.

She glances over at him. “He seems very qualified,” she says, instead of saying he does, which — fuck. He knows he does. “And nice. I like him.”

“You _met_ him?” Robbie asks.

“You’re picky,” she says. “So I called him.”

“I’m not picky,” Robbie mutters.

“I wanted the best for you,” she says. “You certainly weren’t going to be comfortable with someone I wasn’t comfortable with. He’s gay friendly too! I checked.”

‘What’s that matter?’ Robbie wants to ask, but obviously it matters if he’s talking about Georgie, which seems inevitable if he has to talk about the shit that’s fucked him up. Plus, she looks so hopeful that Robbie can’t say anything but, “Thanks.”

He ruins it a moment later by muttering, “Seems kind of stupid to have me meet someone in Boston when I’m in Washington most of the year.”

“Not right now you’re not,” she says. “And he does phone sessions too, I asked that too.”

“Getting kind of ahead of yourself, ma,” Robbie says.

“Someone has to look at the future,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Robbie says.

“You should be training right now,” his ma says, and, when he looks out the window, “Right?”

“I’m allowed to take some time off,” Robbie says.

“Time off staying in the guest room?” she asks. “Doing nothing?”

“Isn’t doing nothing the point of time off?” Robbie asks.

“You don’t seem like you’re enjoying it,” she says.

“I’m not enjoying anything,” Robbie mutters.

“I know,” she says. “That’s the point, Roberto.”

Trust his own fucking mouth to give her the last word. 

“Do you want me to come in?” his mamma asks when they’re parking. “To the waiting room, I mean. You can text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up, or I can come in.”

Robbie hesitates. He does, honestly, thinks he’ll feel better if she waits with him, is there when he comes out, whether or not she’s there because she thinks he’ll chicken out otherwise. Maybe he will. It’s pretty fucking pathetic, though, isn’t it, asking your mother to come in with you when you’re a fucking adult.

“I have my e-reader in my purse,” she says. “I don’t mind coming with you. My book just got good.”

“I mean,” Robbie says. “If your book got good, I guess you can come with me.”

His ma comes with him into the waiting room, but goes to sit down when he has to go to the receptionist, which is one of the worst parts. He glares over at her, but she’s already reading her e-reader. She looks engrossed. Maybe it did get good.

“Insurance?” the receptionist asks, and Robbie pulls his wallet out. Robbie’s got insurance, of course, probably the best insurance money can get, plus a whole lot of extras — Robbie doubts most companies cover costs of major surgeries or emergency dental 100%. Of course, considering they sustain that shit on the job, as it were, makes sense. The card’s right there, beside his Starbucks one, not that he ever uses it, since he gets pretty much everything in house. 

He doesn’t know who approves the stuff they send to the insurance company. He’s sure it’s all confidential or whatever, but all he can think about is someone looking down and going ‘Lombardi’s going to a _shrink_?”, and he can’t fucking — he’s got no shortage of money. He can pay for a damn shrink.

“You take credit?” he asks.

“Don’t the Caps cover you?” his ma asks when he sits down, nosy as ever. He doesn’t know how she can read and eavesdrop at the same time.

“Whatever,” Robbie says. “I can afford it.”

“Still, there’s no reason not to let them—”

“You think I’m proud of this?” Robbie asks. “You think I _want_ people to know?”

“I don’t think you should be ashamed,” she says, and when she takes his hand Robbie lets her. Seems to comfort her.

Robbie doesn’t know how long he waits, but his mamma goes through at least a chapter, and time drags on. 

“Roberto?” he hears, and doesn’t react, since the only people who call him that are family, only getting up when his ma nudges him in the ribs.

The guy looks like the kind of dude who’d work with his papa. Slick, kind of, maybe late forties, though he’s wearing a straight up grandpa sweater.

“I’m Saul,” he says. He has a good handshake, firm.

“Where’s the weird couch?” Robbie says, when they get into his office. Therapy den. Whatever. 

“Chairs seemed a little more practical,” Saul says, and Robbie kind of likes him despite himself. “Take a seat if you’d like.”

Robbie doesn’t really want to, but what’s he going to do, stand? He sits at the one that looks like it’s for him. It has a box of tissues beside it. Subtle.

“So, Mr. Lombardi,” Saul says. “Or Roberto. Which do you prefer?”

“Robbie, if you’ve got me calling you Saul,” Robbie says.

“If you’d prefer to call me Dr. Berkowitz—” Saul starts.

“Saul’s fine,” Robbie says. “I’m just being a shit.”

Saul sits down across from him. It’s hard to avoid eye contact. Robbie’s suddenly getting why those weird couches are a thing, because eye contact is the last thing he wants right now. He looks down at his hands.

“What brings you here, Robbie?” Saul asks.

“Didn’t you talk to my mom about me?” Robbie asks.

“We mostly talked about me,” Saul says.

“Weird, having the tables turned on you, huh?” Robbie asks, looking up, and Saul smiles a little. “You want the Cliff Notes or what?”

“Whatever you feel most comfortable with,” Saul says. “We have time.”

“You dudes have doctor-patient confidentiality, right?” Robbie asks. “You can’t repeat anything?”

“Unless you make statements that imply you are a danger to yourself or to others,” Saul says. “You have complete confidentiality.”

“Sounds like confession,” Robbie says. No eye contact that way, which was a plus, though fuck knows he couldn’t have gone to Father Russo with this shit. “Do you watch hockey?”

“Do I know who you are, you mean?” Saul asks.

“So I guess that answers that,” Robbie says.

“My daughter’s a big fan,” Saul says. “I’ve seen my share of games.”

“Fan of hockey or the Caps?” Robbie asks.

“Hockey fan in general,” Saul says. “Bruins fan in particular.”

“Ouch,” Robbie says, even though that’s exactly what he was at her probable age. He’s not going to ask. Seems weird to ask for life details from the dude whose job it is to pry into yours.

Robbie manages to spend an entire hour — or fifty minutes, whatever — not talking about Georgie, which is kind of impressive to him. It’s not that he doesn’t mention him at all, it’s just…vague. “My ex — ex boyfriend,” checking to see if Saul flinches, which he doesn’t, to his credit, but Robbie’s not — fuck, the people he’s talked to in detail about his relationship with Georgie, he can count them on one hand, and one of those fingers, probably the middle one, is Georgie himself.

Still, it’s the most Robbie’s said in awhile, something about the way Saul looks, or sits, or whatever, goading him forward, so by the end of it Robbie’s said a whole bunch of shit that probably doesn’t make sense as a picture, mostly the playoffs, but Quincy telling him off and Matty’s hovering and his ma’s looks, and the way everything fucking _itches_ , and Saul doesn’t interrupt him once, just listens, asks questions when Robbie runs out of steam. He didn’t realize how badly he needed to fucking _talk_ , but it feels like something’s gotten unclogged or something, like he can finally drain shit out.

Fifty minutes pass faster than the twenty minute drive here did, and there’s a part of Robbie that wants to hold firm in his seat, all _I wasn’t done yet_. He’s barely fucking started.

Saul shakes his hand again on his way out, still firm, a good handshake, and he schedules another appointment with the receptionist, in three days instead of a week, because Saul suggested that. It can’t hurt, and it’s a reason to stay in Boston beyond ‘I’m not sure I can leave’, so. 

His ma waits until they get to the car before she starts asking questions. “So how did things go?” she asks, almost disturbingly cheerful sounding. “Did you like Dr. Berkowitz?”

“He seemed okay,” Robbie says.

“Just okay?” she asks.

“I mean, he didn’t fix me in an hour, if that’s what you mean,” Robbie says.

“I don’t want him to fix you, topolino,” his ma says.

“You just want me to fix myself,” Robbie says. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You don’t need fixing, Roberto,” she says.

Robbie snorts and looks out the window. “Why am I going, then?”

“Because you need to talk to someone,” she says. 

“Because I don’t talk?” Robbie asks. “That’s definitely something I’ve never heard: ‘hey Robbie, you should talk more’.”

“Someone who can help you,” she says.

“But I don’t need fixing,” Robbie says.

“Needing a little help isn’t a weakness,” she says.

“It’s like the dictionary definition of weakness, but whatever,” Robbie says.

His ma sighs, and Robbie just keeps looking out that damn window. Convenience store, dry cleaner, restaurant. His ma starts filling the space Robbie’s left her, talking food again, this time because Isabella’s family is coming for dinner when papa gets back, and Gabbi’s going through a phase where nothing’s good enough. Robbie fucking feels her.

He’s got a few unread texts, and he should read them, but instead he ends up back at the text chain with. The last message is that one from Robbie in April, _Come over and I’ll let you throw the first one_ , and he can still fucking feel the desperation in it. ‘Come over and I’ll let you fucking hit me as long as that means I have your undivided attention’. Pathetic.

It’s amazing he hasn’t texted Georgie since, considering he still feels like that half the time. Pride, he guesses. Self-preservation, maybe.

Probably pride.

“Get help,” Georgie had said, that day he cut Robbie right out like a cancer. Fucking _cried_ over it, like it hurt him.

 _Had an appointment with a shrink today_ , Robbie texts Georgie before he can rethink it, _thought you’d want to know_.

 _Thank you_ , Georgie texts back almost immediately, and Robbie doesn’t know if that’s for telling him or just, like. Doing it.

 _I didn’t do it for you_ , Robbie texts, in case it’s the latter.

 _I know_ , Georgie texts back, then, _Thank you anyway_.

 _whatever_ , Robbie writes, then erases it, settling with nothing.

“Who’re you texting?” his mamma asks. “Elliott?”

“Nah,” Robbie says. “Nobody important.”


End file.
